


A Modest Proposal

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [14]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, James Bond Being James Bond, James Bond Flirts, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7808875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five times Bond asked Q to marry him, and one time Q beat him to the punchline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Modest Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon on tumblr who requested: "super schloopy mega gloopy fluff sometime". There's a little angst in here (I mean, hey, it's me), but the rest of it's unrepentant fluff. Please enjoy!!!

The first time Bond asks, it’s two o’clock in the morning in London. Q has been awake for sixty-four hours, twenty-seven minutes and counting, and Bond’s watching a petroleum refinery in Shanghai explode in a series of eardrum-shattering bursts while listening to Q, who’s been ranting for the past two minutes and fifty-three seconds and who shows no signs of stopping.

“—uncivilized, not to mention _unsafe_. I simply cannot believe that you could value your own safety so little as to set off explosives in an oil refinery. The sheer gall astounds me. Do you not know you can die? Does it not register in your mind? I can’t take this— You’re— I might not be a field agent, but _damn it,_ 007, it’s preposterous how you carry on.”

Q has every intention of continuing. He’s exhausted to the point that it would take effort to stop rambling. All he wants to do is to remind Bond that he _is_ human and that one day he won’t be able to outrun the _damned infernos_ he leaves behind. It’s clearly a conversation Bond needs to have with someone, and since no one else has stepped up, Q’s taken on the job himself.

Everyone within earshot except Bond seems to be listening. Several quartermasters on the night shift have been staring at him intermittently since they arrived and Q failed to leave, and they’ve taken to gawking at Q as he delivers his tirade. Half of them are in awe that he’s managed to talk so long without _breathing_ , and the other half think he’s a bloody hypocrite. Q doesn’t know this, but he’s still of a mind to fire everyone and start over, including Bond. _Especially_ Bond. Never mind that Q doesn’t have jurisdiction over the double-0 section. He should.

Then, from Bond: “Marry me.”

Q opens his mouth to carry on his rant regarding the utter lack of consideration Bond has for himself and his equipment, but those two little words have all of the air leaving his chest, and he finds he can’t make a single sound.

Across the floor, one of the night shift staff drops a pen. Q hears it as if it were next to him, never mind the fact that he can hear explosions and pops as petrol burns two continents over.

“Excuse me?” Q asks when he manages to take a breath.

Bond just laughs and crushes his earpiece.

Q curses—another piece gone, _damn it all_. Q writes off Bond’s parting statement as an ill-planned joke, downs his (disgustingly cold) tea, and stares at the screen of his laptop. It’s shaking—or, no, his hands are shaking, and they’re sitting on his table, and the laptop’s on the table, and the whole contraption is shaking because Q is visibly vibrating.

The answer to that, he decides, because it’s two in the morning and he’s not being paid nearly enough to put up with any of what he’s expected to do, much less face _marriage proposals_ from the double-0 section, is to track down the Monster energy drink he stashed in his office, chug that, and keep working.

* * *

Twelve hours later, Q stands in front of M’s desk, fidgeting and sick to his stomach. There are two M’s. Q can’t figure out which one’s the real one so he looks at the spot squarely between the two of them and hopes he’s somewhere close.

“I understand that you want a raise,” M says. “I assume this has something to do with 007?”

“What?” Q asks. His mouth feels like sandpaper and tastes worse. No doubt he smells rank as well.

M shows him the email. Q can hardly read it because his eyes hurt so much, but what he finds has all of the blood leaving his face. Q _sent an email_ asking for a raise and suggesting he ought to head the double-0 section. There’s a distinct lack of punctuation that isn’t an exclamation point, and “their” is written “they’re” at least once. Q doesn’t remember writing anything of the sort and wants to sink into the floor, never to be seen again. M catches on quickly.

“Go home and take a shower. You look like shite.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

The second time Bond asks, Q is asleep, at home, and utterly not interested in dealing with anyone at all right now, thank-you-very-much.

Or, really, Bond doesn’t ask, but he does imply.

Q thinks he may be reading between the lines too much, but then again, maybe not.

At any rate, Bond calls Q’s mobile. The sharp ringing scares the living daylights out of Q, and when he answers, his heart rate is over one hundred and he feels like the room is spinning.

“I need you to look up Frederico Milici,” is the first Bond says.

“Who?” Q asks. He feels like his head’s been stuffed with cotton.

“Frederico Milici. I need to know where he’s been in the past few hours.”

Q blinks blearily across the room. Were Q a normal person, he’d berate Bond for calling him at an ungodly hour, but his clock tells him that it’s half past eleven in the morning, and Q’s never been classifiable as “normal”. It feels like an unholy time to be awake, anyway; he went to sleep only an hour ago, give or take a few minutes. It’s been a trying week.

“Call the office,” Q says. He hears gunfire over the line.

“Q,” Bond says. It’s a warning more than anything else, but Q ignores it.

“It’s my day off,” Q says. He’s aware that he sounds like a petulant child. Then again, he’s doing what Bond’s asked—his laptop is right there, after all. He’s not supposed to work from home—security risk, not that MI6 had any kind of decent security before Q came along—but if M has anything to say about the transgression, Q guesses he can redirect him to the never-used office of one 007.

(Actually, he’s not thinking much of anything at that moment, but when it’s over, that’s how he’ll rationalize it.)

“Milici,” Q says.

“Any day now, Q.”

“You called me,” Q says. He yawns. “Uh, Milici, Milici…”

“I know his _name_ , Q, I need to know where he’s _been_.”

Bond’s getting snappy—the gunfire’s getting closer.

“Ah, there it is,” Q says. He’s interrupted by another yawn—his, not Bond’s. Obviously. “Uh, checked in at the Ulagalla Resort yesterday with a Serena McCloskey. Had dinner with Benedicio DiPauli—”

“DiPauli,” Bond says. He curses, and something crashes.

“Everything all right?” Q asks. Anna and Aubergine have noticed he’s awake and have come to beg for food. Q shoos them off of the bed, but they refuse to leave him be.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Mm. Do you want me to stay on?”

There’s a pause, then something loud—Bond returning fire.

“Go back to sleep. You’ve given me what I need,” Bond says.

“Feel bad,” Q says. “I was asleep. Took too long.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Bond says. “Go to sleep. I’ll need you again in a few hours.”

“Why don’t you call the office?” Q asks. He’s whining and he knows it. He’s exhausted.

“Because you’re not there,” Bond says. He hangs up before Q can get in a word edgewise.

Apparently, Bond wants to work with Q and only Q, even if he’s sleep deprived and tetchy and unbearably slow. Q would have been lying if he’d said that it didn’t make him smile.

(He’s not smiling when Bond calls back three hours later in desperate need of an escape route after removing DiPauli’s head from his shoulders using a rusty sledgehammer, but those scant few hours of sleep in between are blissful.)

* * *

The third time Bond asks—or, _implies, again_ —Q’s in M’s office, attempting to explain for the umpteenth time why departmental expenditures are through the roof. The budget needs to be completely rewritten for next quarter and no one’s happy.

Well, M and Q aren’t happy. Bond’s sitting there like a particularly bratty child, and if he’s unhappy, Q doubts it has anything to do with the budget.

“We don’t have unlimited resources,” M says, furious.

Q points viciously at Bond. There are fourteen major reasons why Q Division’s been sucking up so much in the way of resources, all of them start with 00, and the worst offender of all is 007 himself. Q’s told Bond this many, many times; he doubts Bond’s going to change course now.

“I can’t let him,” Q says, “or any of the other double-0 agents in this institution go into the field without appropriate equipment. Our adversaries are advancing rapidly and putting _all_ of their chips on agents that can kill. We’re one of the only agencies with a majority of operatives _un_ authorized to take lethal action, and that doesn’t even begin to count the mercenaries and terrorist cells who are _exclusively_ agents of death. So excuse me if I put in the extra effort to make sure that our most valuable resources return alive. There isn’t another way to do business—not one that I’m willing to support, at any rate.”

M isn’t impressed. Bond is, or claims to be.

“Did you write that down first?” Bond asks Q. Q’s ears go red with embarrassment. “Although I rather resent being called a ‘resource’. Valuable, though, I can get behind that. Irreplaceable, perhaps?”

“007, why are you here?” M asks.

Q says, “Case study,” at the exact moment Bond says, “Moral support.” Q glares at Bond, who looks unrepentant. M glares at the both of them.

“At any rate, it’s my job to keep Bond safe, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Q says. “Budgetary cuts will only make it less likely that he’ll return from his next operation.”

“Worried about me specifically?” Bond asks.

“Always, thanks to your conduct in the field,” Q snaps.

“I didn’t know I was so important to you,” Bond teases.

“You’re not,” Q spits. M holds up a hand and goes ignored.

“Do I have to call off the wedding, then?” Bond asks.

“That’s _enough_ ,” M says finally. Q’s entire face has gone red, and Bond isn’t the slightest bit sorry. “007, you are dismissed. Please try to be more careful with the _expensive_ equipment Q has authorized. Q,” M says, “a word.”

Bond doesn’t leave. “You know, all of this could have been avoided if you’d just made me the pen.”

“I’m not making you an exploding pen,” Q says. He’s sick of hearing about it.

“Bond,” M snaps. “Out.”

Bond obeys, for once, leaving Q sitting in front of M. They’re both quiet for a few moments. M stares at Q, and Q does his best to will away the flush that’s taken over his features.

“Tell me you aren’t actually planning on getting married,” M says, voice serious. “You know the fraternization regulations—”

Q gives up all pretense of formality and lays his head on the desk with a groan.

* * *

The fourth time doesn’t count for Q because it should never have happened.

It comes about because Bond has taken to calling Q whenever his operations go haywire rather than relying on the MI6 systems. Q could lose his job over it—no one, especially not the Quartermaster, should have such direct control over the agents without supervision—but he doesn’t tell anyone.

He should have—he really, really should have—because when Bond gets caught and his captors snag Bond’s mobile, it’s Q’s number that comes up as the most frequently called.

The only silver lining, when the call comes through, is that Q’s still at work, demonstrating the utility of a prototypical ring designed to administer electric shocks when put under pressure—say, when punching someone in the jaw. Q’s rather proud of it, but all thoughts of his inventions leave his mind when he sees that Bond’s calling.

“What is it this time?” Q asks, eyeing Tanner. If Tanner finds out—

“We have one of your operatives,” someone Q doesn’t know says. Q feels himself go white. Tanner’s staring at him—

“What are you talking about?” Q demands. “Who are you?”

“Fifty million pounds,” the speaker says, “and you get him back alive.”

Something shifts. Q hears loud static for a moment before he hears, “Hello, darling.”

 _Bond_. In those two words, Q can hear delirium and blood loss. Tanner’s trying to get his attention, trying to figure out what’s going on, but Q can only hear Bond’s laboured breathing.

“Bond,” Q says. “What are you—”

“I’ll be late to the wedding,” Bond murmurs. “Wait for me, would you?”

* * *

They don’t talk about it when Bond gets back. Q’s doesn’t think Bond remembers the nonsensical remark at all. They’d sent 006 and 009 to retrieve him, and when they found him he’d been badly beaten and left to die when it became clear the ransom wasn’t coming through.

Q’s to be court-martialed as soon as Bond recovers enough to give testimony regarding their blatant breach of protocol. Q himself is put on leave until the trial. He sleeps, and when he dreams it’s dark and those words are there, floating in front of him.

_Wait for me, would you?_

Q wakes with the sheets plastered to his skin and a dry mouth.

* * *

The fifth time Bond asks, he’s not asking, he’s telling, and he’s not telling Q, he’s telling the Court Martial.

“Entirely my fault,” Bond says. One of his arms is still in a cast, and his head’s been partially shaved to stitch up a particularly vicious gash, but he still manages to look dapper in a three-piece. He’s a sharp contrast to Q, who looks like a soggy dishrag. “I refused to call in and continued to contact Q personally against his wishes.”

“We understand,” the judge advocate says. He’s a stern fellow with a hooked nose and a thin mouth that’s getting thinner by the second as he grimaces. “That does not excuse the Quartermaster’s failure to report your indiscretions.”

Bond bows his head. “True,” Bond says. “I may have implied that there would be negative repercussions if he did.”

The board murmurs at the outrageous lie. M’s watching the proceedings; Q sees how his hands have balled into tight fists, how his mouth moves as if he’s preparing to interrupt the proceeding. Moneypenny and Tanner sit together, watching. They look scared. Q’s scared, too. This job’s the best thing that’s happened to him, but he can’t let Bond take the fall by himself over a complete lie.

“That is a lie,” Q says. Bond’s head whips to him and they stare at each other for a long moment. “007 made no such threats.” Bond purses his lips as the judge advocate reminds Q that he’s not the one meant to be giving his testimony at the moment.

“In light of the Quartermaster’s ill-timed remarks,” the judge advocate says, “do you wish to _rephrase_ your defense?”

Bond doesn’t hesitate. “As a point of fact, I asked him to marry me,” Bond says. “If that’s not a threat, I don’t know what is.”

There’s faint laughter. Q catches at two members of the board covering their mouths to stifle a chuckle, but the strongest come from back behind him, where the scant few onlookers sit.

“Is this true?” the judge advocate says. He’s speaking to Q.

Q cannot lie, and the trial’s enough of a circus that a few more glib remarks can’t make the results any worse. “He asked several times,” Q says. “Can’t say if it was meant to be a threat, though. Have you seen him?” He makes a show of ogling Bond. “A fine catch, really.”

* * *

There’s a brief recess after that. Moneypenny’s shaking her head, and M looks thunderously angry. Bond grins, though, and Q supposes if he gets nothing else out of this, it won’t be the worst thing in the world.

* * *

The sixth time is really the first time because Q beats Bond to the punchline.

The Court Martial finds both Bond and Q guilty of disregarding MI6 protocol in favour of their own interests but due to the circumstances under which the information came to light, their punishments are left to the discretion of M. M makes a pretense of grounding Bond and tells Q that if it happens again, he’ll send Theodore from Finance down to work in Q Division. The threat of Theodore, who Q and Moneypenny have privately dubbed Sir Talk-a-Lot and who believes he has unparalleled knowledge of computers (he doesn’t), has Q promising that it’ll never happen again.

Bond’s waiting for Q outside of M’s office, and they walk to the lifts together.

“No one can tell you what to do,” Q says, speaking low and quietly, “but M’s threatened me with _Theodore_ , and if I get saddled with him, there’ll be hell to pay. We need a protocol.”

“Thickheaded Theodore,” Bond murmured. “Now that is a punishment.”

Q swats at Bond. “Now be serious. I’ve thought of a solution, if you’re amenable.”

“Oh?”

“Marry me.”

* * *

M is less surprised than he ought to be when the pair of them appear in his door.

“No,” he says simply.

“We’re engaged,” Bond replies. “Surely I’m allowed to call my husband when I’m away.”

“I’m your fiancé,” Q says. He can’t wipe the smile from his face. “Husband comes later.”

“I figured we’d get married sooner rather than later,” Bond says. He’s got one of Q’s hands in his own, and he rubs the back of it with his thumb. “Before I get sent off. Is that all right?”

“Of course,” Q says. To M, he says, “Will you be coming to the service, or are you sending your regrets?”

M rubs his temples. “I’ve many regrets,” he says. “Out with you both.”

Bond wraps an arm around Q’s waist and pulls him in tight, squeezing slightly, and Q yelps. He doesn’t think the blush will ever leave his face.

The lift, when they finally take it back down, is mercifully empty. Merciful, because Bond decides it’s the perfect time to demonstrate what his _affection_ looks like. Q thinks he’ll feel the metal rail digging into his back for the rest of time. The ride is all too short for his tastes—and for Bond’s, too, if the ravenous look in his eyes is any indication.

When they exit the lift, Q is the subject of interested and slightly scandalized looks of everyone who sees him and Bond as they leave the building. They stare at Q’s hair, which is utterly unsalvageable from Bond’s fingers tangling in it, and possibly the blooming mark on Q’s throat which will be impossible to hide, or maybe the possessive way in which Bond keeps Q close. Q stands tall and tries not to trip over his own two feet, which is difficult when his attention is fixed on the man at his side. Still, he has Bond holding him steady, which counts for a lot. Bond also glares at anyone who looks at Q for longer than a few seconds in a silent _how dare you_. The hand on his hip says _mine_ and Q’s grip on Bond says _mine_ and between the two of them there is no room.

* * *

“You know, I don’t normally get engaged without a first date,” Q says as Bond gets him into a car.

“Tonight, then,” Bond says. “Dinner.”

“Will you be a proper gentleman, then?” Q asks.

Bond pulls Q across the seat to kiss him, and only breaks when a better idea crosses his mind. “Of course,” he says.

Q groans. “I have—ah—a better idea,” he says. “Right now.”

“Now?”

“Date.”

“Is this the part where I drive you home?” Bond asks, voice deep.

Q absolutely approves.


End file.
